Gardening
by drama fixated
Summary: [The Secret Garden] There she was, a few packets of seeds in her arms, a shovel in her right hand. He cursed silently. Just when he had made progress on trying to forget her . . she had appeared. Aye? He answered nonchalantly. Mary x Dickon


Disclaimer: _The Secret Garden _is not mine; it's all Frances Hodgson Burnett's. The only thing I own is the fic!

Author's Note: Have no idea where this came from - random thoughts, maybe? This goes out to **Romy **for always encouraging me, and being such a great friend (hugs)

And as always, to the readers/reviewers - you have no idea how you make my day with your comments and encouragment. Thank you! I hope you enjoy this.

"He" is Dickon; "she" is Mary.

* * *

Gardening soothed him.

It was his medicine of sorts – one plunge into the soil, and he felt better. Healed.

Just the feel of the earth sifting smoothly through his hands, damp, thin and soft, the sweet call of the birds flying high above, the sight of seeing everything growing and blooming around him was enough to make him the happiest man in the world. Nature helped him heal.

And his chaotic mind was put to rest; it focused on what he should do to make the shoots bear more fruit or buds, or how the tiny flowers blossomed into delphiniums, mignonette, campanulas, Canterbury bells . . . the list went on to infinity . . instead of his feelings.

He pushed _that_ thought out of his mind and went back to his world of nature – animals, plants, how everything interacted.

A world like the one he lived in – the world of expectations, forbidden thoughts, organized order.

But not quite. He could live peacefully and happily in nature; it was where he belonged, the only place where he could fit in and be welcomed.

Not the world he survived in; the one where he knew he didn't belong, and where no one neither expected – nor wanted – him to fit in.

It was as if he was vermin to society – and he probably was, he reflected.

Not that he wanted to belong there anyway; all the endless expectations for him were a headache; and he knew he couldn't meet up to them. He never would.

That world wasn't for him, he knew; where he was now, was where he belonged. This was his paradise – his second home.

Here, he didn't have any expectations, was free to think and do anything that he wanted – he had no restrictions at all. He was free.

So then why, he wondered as he carefully planted a zinnia seed, enveloping it in warm, rich, dark soil, did he find himself wanting, actually _wanting_, to belong in that world, where all forbidden things were?

He stopped. It was better if he left that train of thought unfinished . . what would he do if it had gone on further?

Shaking his head, he went on planting – carefully listening to the sounds, both near and far off, at the same time. He was going nutters – that was plain and simple. Even if he _had _wanted to belong in an elegant, almost fantasy like world like Colin's and –

He stopped again. One more step and he would have lost control of his thoughts and emotions.

What had he been thinking, anyway? He was hoping – that was it. Just hoping. He knew he never would belong – so why was he keeping his hope up?

Even he, the knowledgeable one (when it came to anything natural, that is), didn't know the answer to that.

It was best that he forget about it and move on . . keep on living with no regrets or misgivings.

Maybe gardening was not only his relief; it was his escape.

Stopping again, he looked around, eyes moving everywhere; back, front, right, left, side; as if searching for an answer.

All that answered him were the cheerful twittering of the birds, a rustle of a leaf, the wind's slightly blistery laugh, which oddly sounded like a whistle . .

Overhead, the robin and his mate flew high, searching for food for their babies – he watched them silently until they blurred away in the distance.

He looked at the ground, and then up at the sky, which was rapidly fading into vivid pink and a light shade of blue, the colors of the sunset.

He decided to keep on working – until he was ready for a break.

Mentally shaking all the "forbidden" thoughts out of his head, he went back to gently coaxing the soil, so it would allow for the herbs and other flora to sprout and spread.

And he couldn't . . and didn't want to . . think about the happiness and the one person he couldn't be with.

He would have to think about the present, nothing else, and leave it at that. Even if his mind and heart wouldn't.

The sound of her soft footsteps on the grass then were unnoticed by him; so absorbed was he in his work that he wasn't concentrating on anything else. Not even the sounds and _feels_ of nature all around him.

"Dickon?" The quiet utterance of his name caused him to stop and look . . even if he'd had recognized the voice the instant he had heard it.

There she was; a few packets of seeds in her arms, a shovel in her right hand.

He cursed silently. Just when he had made progress on trying to forget her . . she had appeared. "Aye?" He answered nonchalantly.

"Do you mind if I help? I haven't been here in the garden for a while," She said quickly, the words slurring together in a rush, "and I wanted to work with y – the plants, I mean."

He had to keep himself from gawking wide-eyed at her in surprise. After what had seemed like ages spread into eternity – he smiled. "Go ahead, Miss Mary."

At his calling her by his special name for her, an uncharacteristic blush came over her cheeks. He couldn't help but wonder at it.

She laid the seed packets and the shovel down on the ground, and sat herself down beside him. Digging her fingers into the damp, soft earth, she breathed deeply and looked over at him.

He saw the unspoken question in her eyes and shook his head forcefully. "No, don' think that, please, Mary." A pause. "We mun forgive what we did and let it be." He gave her a tentative smile. "Mun' of all, me."

She smiled bittersweetly in understanding. "I'm . . I'm really sorry," she said at last.

"Wha' did tha' do?" He inquired. "Tha' did not do anythin'. An' there's no need for tha' to be sorry."

She nodded, comforted somehow by his words; she knew that he had spoken the truth. And that was why she believed him then; before, and always after that.

"Now, wha' do tha' say to helpin' th' garden spout up a bit, eh?" His eyes twinkled, full of humor. "Th' leaves are lookin' droopy."

She laughed, and agreed. Together, they worked and coaxed the leaves to spread out and grow; and they had a grand time doing it.

As they worked, the garden soon filled up with the joyous sound of mirth, as the two friends began to talk and joke and laugh in the longest while.

And as he finished off telling her about the zinnias and why he had planted them, he found himself to be truly happy, with her at his side, and the two of them being the best of friends again.

Gardening soothed him, but he realized then, that she was his best medicine – and the one who always helped him heal. His true medicine.


End file.
